


crescendo

by figure8



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: “You know,” Jaemin says. “Your type has always been Chinese and older than you.”





	crescendo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrophane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrophane/gifts).

> i find the perspective of renjun joining wayv post graduation highly unlikely but this is ART and IMAGINATION, babey

_ Time was away and somewhere else, _

_ There were two glasses and two chairs _

_ And two people with the one pulse _

_ (Somebody stopped the moving stairs): _

_ Time was away and somewhere else. _

— Louis MacNeice

Renjun re-adjusts his collar, one furtive look at one of the long gold-rimmed mirrors plastered all around the ballroom. In his white linen suit and pale pink shirt he looks like someone straight out of _ Casablanca _—the movie, not the city. He’s never been to Morocco. He’s never been to Africa, really. He’d like to, one day. He dreams of it often—not this specific trip but just any trip, somewhere foreign enough that a pair of sunglasses would suffice as disguise. It’s not for now. There are too many years still to spend, unrolling under his feet like a red carpet, waiting. He’ll take the spotlight. He’s never really been one to lament it. 

He scans the room for Yukhei. You’d think he’d be easier to spot, wild hair peeking above crowd levels, voice always a tad too loud. He must be sitting somewhere because Renjun cannot find him for the life of him. 

“You look like a lost baby bird,” a familiar voice comes up behind him, happy and crinkly like foil wrapper. Renjun turns to beam up at Wen Junhui. 

They haven’t seen each other in a while. They _ have, _actually, crossed paths quite recently, but it’s been months since they last exchanged words, and probably a year since the words were substantial. Renjun is a busy man, juggling his solo career with his WayV appearances, even though the latter have been more spaced out recently, more promotional pictures and less recording. He’s grateful for that. He filled the Cadillac Arena last month and if he had to re-enter a studio so soon after the most physically exhausting experience of his life he thinks he might have taken that dreamed vacation sooner than later. 

Wen Junhui is busy too, albeit in different ways. Renjun still travels back to South Korea fairly often—he doesn’t think the older man has taken that particular flight path in the last few years. Mostly Junhui can be found on film sets, which is something Renjun finds simultaneously fascinating and terrifying. He’s used to being behind a camera, but the only role he’s ever known how to play has been his own. 

Even that, he thinks, he was never really good at. _ Pure boy Renjun, _he remembers with a smile. 

“I’m looking for my members,” Renjun explains. “Have you seen—”

“Wong Yukhei is in the restrooms,” Junhui interrupts him. “He spilled an entire saucer on himself.”

“Oh,” Renjun frowns. “Uh. Thank you.”

“I don’t know where the rest of your boys are, though.”

_ Your boys. _They’re not, Renjun reflexively wants to shoot back. If anything they are Kun’s boys, all of them. Renjun’s boys are somewhere else, and he hasn’t attended a gala with them in so long he’s starting to forget what Mark’s laugh used to sound like. 

He shakes his head. He’ll have to phone Jaemin, after, when he’s back in his hotel room. 

Junhui plucks a flute of Champagne from a passing tray, takes a long sip. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s the job,” Renjun shrugs. 

“Maybe,” Junhui rolls the leg of his glass between his thumb and his pointer. 

“You look well,” Renjun tells him, because he does. Junhui smirks, satisfied. His light brown hair is falling diagonally over his right eye. 

There’s always been—a stir, something, at the pit of his belly, every single time they have interacted. Junhui is hard to figure out. Bubbly types, it’s complicated to gauge if they actually like you. Jaemin is like that too, but Renjun was lucky enough to bulldoze through his walls a long time before they were fortified. 

Junhui gulps down the rest of his drink, sighs happily. “Thanks. Congrats on the tour, by the way. I almost sent flowers.” 

“Why almost?”

Junhui takes a second to answer. “It felt… inappropriate, somehow. But I thought about it.” 

Contrarily to Renjun’s casually open shirt, Junhui’s tie knots nicely right at the base of his throat. Renjun’s eyes linger there for a short moment.

“Thank you for the thought, then,” he says, weirdly formal even to his own ears. Junhui is his senior, except not really—and when he unequivocally was he and Renjun never quite used formalities with each other, going straight for the comfort of Mandarin and the gentleness of familiarity. Junhui caught his accent, once. They used to speak enough for that to happen. 

“I’ll see you around, I’m sure,” he adds. Junhui nods, still smiling. There is a hint of fondness to it, and it annoys Renjun for a reason he cannot quite pinpoint.

Later in his hotel room he recounts all that to Jaemin and Jaemin laughs, light and crystalline. 

“I don’t see what’s funny,” Renjun pouts, his back sliding slowly along the headboard of his too-large bed. He sticks the phone between his cheek and his shoulder to rummage the nightstand for a charger. The phone emits a light _ beep _as it’s plugged in, eating a word off Jaemin’s sentence. 

“What?” 

“I said it’s funny because you never change,” Jaemin repeats. 

Renjun glares at his empty room. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” Jaemin says. “Your type has always been Chinese and older than you.” Before Renjun can even think of defending himself, he adds, “Don’t try. Winwin-hyung—”

“For the last time, I did _ not _have a crush on Sicheng,” Renjun interjects. 

“Lucas,” Jaemin continues, and Renjun can picture him, enumerating, counting the names on his fingers. 

“Okay, _ touché,_” Renjun admits, “But that’s one person, that doesn’t make a pattern.”

“Moon Joonhwi,” Jaemin says. “Zhang Yixing.”

“Okay,” Renjun says again. “Maybe.” 

He twirls the cord of his charger around a finger like a lock of hair. Jaemin laughs again on the other side of the line. 

“How do you explain you, then?” Renjun asks after a beat. It comes out a little sharp. 

Jaemin’s giggles stop. When he speaks his tone is softer, all taunting gone. “That’s different.”

“Different how?” Renjun presses. He knows, _ different how. _He still wants to hear Jaemin say it. Silence stretches between them like the distance. Sometimes Renjun wishes the sea was a sheet so that he could fold it. 

“It’s getting late,” Jaemin says instead. 

Renjun knows when to accept defeat. 

“Goodnight, then. Call me when you can.”

“Always,” Jaemin says. “Don’t stay up, go to sleep.” 

In the morning he wakes up with his phone still in hand and his mouth dry, as if Jaemin’s words had been a spell and not advice. He grimaces at the sight that greets him in the bathroom mirror, bleached hair a mess and pillow line imprints on his cheek. There’s no time for a shower so he opts for brushing his teeth and rubbing dry shampoo on his roots and hoping for the best. He sprays himself with perfume all over to be safe. 

“You look like death,” Ten tells him in the SUV in lieu of hello. Renjun lowers his Ray-Bans to glare at him in full effect. 

Kun twists the upper part of his body to turn around in his seat and inspect him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. 

“How much did you have to drink?”

Renjun groans, hides his face in the crook of his elbow. “Really not much. And I’m almost twenty-five.” 

“In this car, you’re my responsibility,” Kun says, unimpressed. “I know we haven’t been a group to you in a long time, but I don’t think asking you to pretend three times a year is too much.” 

The car turns quiet—the type of quiet that is cold. Renjun doesn’t like the way Kun’s voice still makes his stomach contract in shame when he’s being reprimanded. “Sorry,” he mutters. Yukhei nudges him in the ribs with his arm in sympathy. 

They have a broadcast appearance to film, and then Renjun will fly back to Beijing where he’s supposed to host a cultural event, and Yukhei will fly back to Hong Kong for a shoot, and Ten will fly back to Seoul where he will be _ NCT’s _Ten again, and Kun will be left behind with the younger ones and their dozens of endorsement deals that rack in money but taste nothing like music and stage lights. Renjun knows he holds the better end of the stick. It’s just not the stick he’d rather be holding, is all. 

He meets Junhui again barely a month later, this time in an airport lounge. Junhui’s eyes sparkle when they fall on him, and he walks towards Renjun with a determined air on his face. 

“What a coincidence,” he grins, settling down in the loveseat opposite him. Renjun’s hold on his coffee mug tightens. 

“Hyung,” Renjun says, in Korean, “How have you been?” 

Junhui continues in Chinese. “Tired, mostly.” Smile growing bigger, he volunteers information Renjun didn’t ask for. He’s always been talkative, but never _ loose-lipped, _and there is a difference. “I’m going for a wedding. Can you imagine? Well, you can, actually. Didn’t one of your members get married last spring?”

Renjun grimaces. Johnny’s wedding had indeed made the news, but mostly to the sound of thunder, not applause. Something about marrying a white woman in America hadn’t settled quite right with the public, not that Johnny cared much by that point. 

_ Almost twenty years of my life, _ he had told Renjun at the wedding, words slurred, looking terribly handsome in his tux. _ I don’t have any more to give. _

“Congratulations,” Renjun says mechanically. 

The overhead speaker announces a Korean Air flight number. Junhui perks up. 

“That’s my flight. We never quite get the time to talk, you and I.” He gets up, dusts his palms off on his jeans. Pensive for a second, he grabs a napkin from the table next to them, fishes a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his jacket and scribbles something on it before handing it to Renjun. 

“Call me,” he says as Renjun stares down at the string of numbers, wordless. “If you ever need someone—to talk.” 

Renjun huffs. His soy latte has gone cold. “Do I look that sad, gē?” 

Junhui zips up his jacket. “No,” he says. “Maybe only to me.” 

Seoul is colder than he remembered. The tall buildings do almost nothing to shield him from the wind, and Renjun swears under his breath, cursing his past self for not packing a heavier coat. 

The hotel he’s staying at has a bar, Western style. Renjun heads straight for the counter, not bothering to go up to his room to freshen up. He orders a fancy cocktail made with soju and four other types of alcohol he cannot bother to try and pronounce. What the bartender slides in front of him tastes potent but sweet, smooth. Liquor, he thinks, can be as deceiving as humans are. 

He hates being back. He hates being back like this, especially. 

It takes him two drinks to hit that specific point of misery where reaching for one’s phone becomes a mistake. Renjun does anyway. His thumb hovers over Jeno’s number in his contacts. 

“God,” he mutters to himself, forehead thumping with a dull sound on the bar, “You are a fucking clown.” 

“Need anything, sir?” the barman asks. 

“I’m fine,” Renjun mumbles. “Thank you.” 

He unlocks his screen again, shortly considers calling Ten and then smartly decides against it. Ten is a good listener, but not so much when he’s concerned, and wether Renjun likes it or not he _ is _concerned. 

The bar is bathed in blue and purple light, twinkling along the surface of the bottles, ethereal. Renjun does have one last option. 

Junhui picks up almost immediately. His tone is guarded, curious, and Renjun remembers Junhui does not have Renjun’s number. 

“It’s me,” he says. “I mean, it’s Huang Renjun.”

Junhui breathes out, relieved. “Fuck, I thought I would have to change my number again.” 

“Sorry,” Renjun grimaces in sympathy. “I—I don’t really know why I called. You said—”

“I said you could,” Junhui completes. “You can.” 

“I don’t really need to talk,” Renjun tells him. 

Junhui remains quiet for a while, like he’s processing the information. “What do you need then?” he asks finally. 

“Are you still… are you still in town?”

“Yes,” he says, understanding. “Text me the address.” 

“I’m staying at a hotel near the SM building, it’s upscale but you still might wanna—”

“Renjun,” Junhui cuts him off softly. “I know. Just send me the address.” 

Turns out Renjun does need to talk, because as soon as Junhui takes the high stool next to him it all starts pouring out.

“They called me down to renegotiate my contract,” he explains, voice hollow. “I told them I’m not signing again. _ Fuck,_” he exhales, “I haven’t really told. Anyone.”

“Okay,” Junhui says, kind. “Does it feel better? Now that you said it.”

“No,” Renjun replies honestly. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Junhui nods. “It didn’t, for me. For me either.” 

“How did you deal?”

“I always wanted to be an actor. Or at least I had wanted it for long enough that getting to do it full time took my mind off it, mostly. Also, half of the group had enlisted by then. It wasn’t that big of a leap.”

“I asked Yixing for advice,” Renjun says, watching the bottom of his glass. 

“EXO’s Lay?” Junhui furrows his brows.

Renjun wonders if he too will always be _ NCT Dream’s Renjun _to some people. WeishenV’s Renjun, maybe, although he doubts it. 

“It’s weird,” Renjun laughs humorlessly, “Because when I was a kid I wanted to be him—badly enough to audition for SM and then _ get in _and stay. And today might be the closest I’ll ever be to that dream and mostly I want to throw up.”

“Dreams change,” Junhui says. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a Wushu champion.” 

“But this is the same dream,” Renjun shakes his head. “The stage, and singing. I still want that.”

“But you’re lonely,” Junhui guesses.

Renjun thinks, through the fog in his brain, that he doesn’t appreciate being read like that. 

“Yeah,” he confirms anyway. “I’m lonely.” 

“When Mingming left I thought about quitting,” Junhui says. “Then it passed. It still sucked, being alone, but it didn’t suck enough to warrant leaving. And then Minghao came.”

“I don’t have a Minghao,” Renjun snorts bitterly. 

Junhui nibbles on his bottom lip for a while, pensive, before answering. “I think, maybe, that even if someone did come along, you’re too busy missing your old life to notice them.” 

It hurts a little. Like Renjun’s insides are melted ice cream and Junhui’s words a scoop. 

“So it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that,” Junhui says, gentle. “But I remember that boy that ran to me all excited backstage at Mnet to hand me his group’s album. I haven’t seen him in a while.” Lower, head closer to Renjun’s now. “I miss him.” 

_ Well, fuck, _Renjun thinks. He can smell Junhui’s shampoo, like that; something fruity and light. 

Jaemin’s voice echoes inside his brain, _ your type has always been Chinese and older than you. _He still disagrees. Mostly Renjun’s type is killer smile and kind eyes and male, but Junhui comes close to that too. 

“Sorry,” he says, putting the tiniest bit of distance between them. He doesn’t feel self-destructive enough to lean in. “I’m trying. To be that boy again, I mean.”

“You’re always that boy,” Junhui says, respectfully standing back too. That he notices, that he pays attention, it makes Renjun a little dizzy in a way he doesn’t think is related to the alcohol swimming in his veins. “You’re always yourself. You just have to remember, and make you way back.” 

“You always know what to say,” Renjun smiles sadly. 

“It’s because I’ve been there myself,” Junhui shrugs. 

Renjun chases the last drops of his second cocktail with his tongue, puts the cylindrical glass back down. “Is that why you tried to befriend me, back then? Because I remind you of yourself?”

“Partially,” Junhui says. “You’re your own person, Renjun. You’d be interesting even without the similitudes. Maybe just less easy to talk to.” 

Warmth spreads through Renjun’s solar plexus. _ Fuck, _he thinks again.

“I think I’m going to head up,” he says. Junhui holds his gaze. The tip of Renjun’s tongue buzzes. “I’m in room 639,” he finishes, words jumbled together, ears burning. Maybe he’s wrong, and he completely misread the situation, and he’s making a fool of himself. 

“Okay,” Junhui nods, but his voice is rough around the edges. It’s almost imperceptible, except Renjun is paying very close attention. “Have a good night, little bird.” 

The light knock on his door comes fifteen minutes later. Renjun has brushed his teeth and washed his face, feeling increasingly ridiculous with each second passing. The cold water sobered him up, too, and with his mind less hazy the fire in his bones is only sharper, cutting deeper. 

He opens the door to Junhui’s wide smile. It’s the smile of a shark, as much as sharks can have good intentions. When the door slams shut Junhui crowds him up against the wall, hands framing Renjun’s face. 

“You came,” Renjun says dumbly. 

“Well,” Junhui snickers, infuriating, “Not yet, but hopefully at some point tonight, yeah.” 

Renjun punches him in the arm. He gets a kiss for his trouble, on the corner of his mouth, chaste. 

“I’m gonna kiss you for real,” Junhui murmurs, a warning. 

“You’re all talk,” Renjun grunts, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and crushing their mouths together. Junhui moans as he parts his lips, surprised. Renjun slides a hand up his neck and into his hair, tangles his fingers there. He spreads his legs and Junhui slots a leg between his thighs, smiling against Renjun’s mouth. 

“You’re sweet,” he laughs, but it’s imbued with fondness. His right hand is fiddling with Renjun’s belt. “You’re a sweet little thing.” 

“I could kill you,” Renjun frowns. 

“No,” Junhui says, “You really couldn’t,” and then he slides his hand under Renjun’s waistband. 

In the morning Renjun expects to wake up to an empty bed, but Junhui is there when he opens his eyes blearily, blinking at the traitorous rays of sunlight that managed to filter through the half-opened blinds he forgot to completely roll down yesterday. 

He’s beautiful like that, the covers almost artistically covering his lower back and lower, warm orange light retracing the elegant slope of his shoulder. Unthinking, Renjun presses a kiss there. Junhui shivers in his sleep but does not wake up. 

Reluctantly, Renjun pushes himself off the mattress. He has a flight in the evening. He needs to call the reception desk and ask for late check-out, although if Junhui is still sleeping in ten minutes he’s just going to take the elevator to the lobby and ask there instead of waking him up. 

On the nightstand, Renjun’s iPhone lights up with an unread text. 

_ I know you’re here, _ Jaemin’s message reads. _ Let me take you out for lunch. _


End file.
